


Lethal Weapons

by krysalys



Category: Lethal Weapon (TV)
Genre: Author's Having Health Issues, Character Death Fix, F/M, Gen, Not Really Character Death, On Hiatus, Post-Canon Fix-It
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-28
Updated: 2019-06-25
Packaged: 2020-03-20 17:24:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,626
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18997153
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/krysalys/pseuds/krysalys
Summary: Neurotic author's note:In my OpenOffice doc, I have this fic subtitled "Because fuck that noise, Riggs deserves a better swan song than that".So, actual summary:Riggs is not as alone as he thinks he is in dealing with his father, half-brother, and the Aryan Brotherhood of Texas. There are others watching from the shadows, who step in just when everything goes sideways... again...





	1. Goodbye, Miranda

Martin slowly walked up to Miranda's headstone. “Hey baby. It might be a while before I come by and visit.” He carefully dropped to his knees and laid the bouquet of flowers on her grave. “You know, the only life I ever saw for myself was with you and my boy. I miss you. Didn't think I could have another future. Didn't think I'd want one, but now I do. And that doesn't mean I'm gonna forget you; I just couldn't let you go. But I love you. You're always gonna be with me.”

He held onto the knife wound as he stood, the stitches straining slightly with the movement. The pain was more than manageable though, especially since he'd dutifully swallowed a pain pill under Molly's watchful gaze earlier that morning. Even a few weeks earlier, he wouldn't've bothered with any pills, believing that he'd more than earned the physical pain that had never seemed to touch the emotional agony he'd been carrying around what felt like his whole life. But now he was finally in a place where he could see that having something to live for... some _one_ to live for, made the self-inflicted punishment pointless. 

Smiling softly at Miranda's gravestone, he straightened & turned to leave.

Standing not ten feet away was Garrett, grimly pointing a gun right at Martin's chest.

Martin blinked. Oh.

“ _Oh._ ”

The gun fired.

Martin's been shot plenty of times over the years. This one, though, hit him like a solid mule-kick from Hell. He staggered back a half-step, suddenly winded, a hand slowly rising to feel where the bullet hit him. He looked down at blood already pouring down his shirt from the neat hole, the quiet sounds of the cemetery around him fuzzing into static.

Maybe he should've taken that agent's advice.

Garrett just stood there, the hateful look in his eyes seeming to sap the strength from Martin's legs. _'Just like the Old Man.'_ He'd always known those cold reptilian eyes would be the last thing he'd see before he died, but Martin had always thought it'd be his father's face. Not his younger half-brother's.

The world tilted until Martin's butt impacted the surprisingly soft grass. It was weird that he wasn't feeling any pain yet. He tried to suck in air, but his lungs weren't working. 

 

Thirty minutes prior...

On the way to the cemetery, Martin pulled the truck up beside a flower shop set up on the sidewalk & flipped on his four-way lights. Carefully hopping out, he quickly picked a bunch of colorful mixed flowers, smiling absently at the younger dark-haired woman manning the stand. He noted a tall, thin man in a suit with a shock of messy black hair come up beside him with a handful of daisies & baby's breath.

“That'll be twenty-seven eighteen, sir,” the woman smiled at him, & Martin slipped cash out from his wallet.

“Detective,” the man with the daisies spoke quietly, and Martin's eyes shot over to reassess the man. “Agent Brendan Dean, NSA,” he identified himself. “And Agent McAllister,” he nodded at the woman. “Did you know you're being followed?”

Martin frowned and shook his head as he subtly shifted onto the balls of his feet, knife-wound twinging at the movement.

The woman handed him change with another smile. “Relax Detective, we're on your side. We're part of a joint task force trying to break up the Aryan Brotherhood. We've had agents watching over you for months now, and with recent developments, Agent Dean and I were tasked with bringing you in to protective custody.”

Martin shook his head again. “Nah, doin' just fine on my own,” he replied with one of his fake grins. “Kinda late to the party, ain't'cha?”

The woman waggled her fingertips at him and tilted her head towards the other man. Martin shoved the change into his pocket and stepped aside so Agent Dean could buy his own flowers. “Nope,” she replied cheerfully. “Twenty-one seventy-five,” she directed to Agent Dean. “Because of your father's death, the Brotherhood's just put hits out on you and those you care about,” she added with a smile that belied the gravity of her words. “They're focusing on your girlfriend and her son, so your partner and his family are safe for the moment. Right now, though, a Brotherhood member's following you to the cemetery.” She nodded to Agent Dean as he backed away from the stall and began strolling down the sidewalk.

“Shit,” Martin hissed, his grip on the flowers tightening. “I'll take care of it.”

“If you won't let us take you in, Martin, I strongly suggest you wear a vest under your shirt,” Agent McAllister gently urged as she handed him a sale flyer. “Please.”

“Just keep Molls and Ben safe 'til I get back to 'em,” Martin replied lowly. “I'll be fine.”

“HEY, ASSHOLE, MOVE YOUR PIECE'A CRAP!” A Lexus driver held down the horn and gesticulated out of his open sunroof with the other hand.  
Martin pasted a huge smile on his face, tipped an imaginary hat at Agent McAllister and unhurriedly sauntered back to his truck. “Oh, I'm sorry,” he thickened his accent to a syrupy sweetness. “Am I in your way, good sir? I'm _so sorry_ for the inconvenience to your day!” He tossed the flowers into the passenger's side and took his sweet time getting into the driver's seat, exaggeratedly holding his stitched wound the whole time. 

He completely ignored the increasingly agitated driver as he took extra care in fastening his seatbelt, turning off his four-ways, then flipping the signal to indicate he wanted to merge into traffic, before stomping down on the gas and rapidly accelerating to the speed limit.

And no more.

Freya McAllister shook her head at the Detective's antics and picked up her phone to cover speaking into her mic. “Stay close to him, Brendan, and bring the medics. Gimme ten and I'll join you.” She nodded politely at a passing couple, pretended to hang up her phone and entered the store the flower stall was set up in front of.

 

Just after Martin was shot...

Martin gasped, vainly trying to breathe around the invisible fist squeezing his lungs to paste. His vision was already graying around the edges as the world tilted until his back hit the ground. The last thing he saw was Garrett slowly backing up as his gun arm lowered, then it was all endless fading blue.

The static in his ears intensified. In what felt like one blink of his eyes and a thousand hours at the same time, Martin felt his shoulder jostled as someone dropped to their knees at his side. Hazel green eyes in a narrow, heavily stubbled face stared intently at him as the man from the flower stand mouthed words Martin couldn't hear, and hands touched the pulse points at his neck and wrist. He blinked stupidly at the man before registering more faces swimming around the edge of his darkening vision. Frozen fire blazed out from the bullet hole across his chest and abdomen as his lungs fluttered in their futile attempts to inflate.

The woman from the flower stand pulled Martin's chin to face her on his other side as an oxygen mask was secured over his mouth and nose, someone sliced his undershirt open to access the bullet hole and hands pressed dressings to his chest. The woman's face was so close to his that he could hear her talking in his ear.

“Don't try to talk, Detective. We have agents pursuing your brother. Molly and Ben are safe, okay? Let's get you patched up, and you'll see them soon.”

He used the last of his rapidly fading strength to jerk a thankful nod, and then Detective Martin Riggs let the swirling blackness suck him under.


	2. Goodbye Riggs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Roger tried everything he can think of, but this ain't the frickin' movies. People die. Even crazy-ass partners.  
> Or do they?

Roger broke quite a few records racing to the cemetery, his wailing siren for once parting traffic like Moses did the Red Sea. The scanner spat out cross-chatter like a M2 Browning until dispatch was finally able to reestablish coherency with Avery snapping out perfect drill sergeant orders. As Roger slammed his car to a screeching stop, he noticed EMTs were already on scene and swarming around Miranda Riggs' grave. More officers arrived in a flurry of sirens and flashing lights as Roger ran to the huddled first responders, irreverently shoving people out of his way and crashing to his knees at Riggs' side just as a gurney arrived.

  
“Riggs? Riggs!” he yelled at his unresponsive partner, noting the gray pallor on the other man's cheeks and blue creeping across lips covered with an oxygen mask. One of the EMTs Roger had displaced grabbed his shoulder and yanked him backwards to retake his position. “Hey, what can I...”

  
“Get OUT OF THE WAY,” the EMT snapped, and with a nod at two others, quickly transferred Riggs onto the gurney. Immediately one of the smaller medics straddled Riggs' hips and began compressions as the gurney was rushed to the ambulance a few hundred feet away.

  
Undeterred, Roger raced behind the group and practically dove into the front passenger seat. The ambulance driver glared and started to order him out, but Roger flashed his badge. “He's my partner and I'm his medical proxy. I'm coming!”

  
The driver nodded tersely. “Seatbelt, Detective,” he ordered, and once the back doors slammed shut a moment later, he flipped the lights and siren on while deftly maneuvering the truck onto the road.

  
In the back, monitors screamed as the medic doing compressions fought to resuscitate Riggs. A second medic rapidly attached other leads and at least one IV that Roger could see while a third squeezed an oxygen bag to the compression medic's count.

  
The ambulance swayed and bounced as the driver sped them through the streets, two patrol cars out in front ensuring an unimpeded route.  
Roger tightly gripped the back of his seat so he could watch the medics working. It felt as if he took his eyes off of Riggs even once that the other man would die (and stay dead) like the partner-deserting asshole he was. The rest of the trip was a rollercoaster of activity in the back, with the medics successfully resuscitating Riggs twice before the ambulance arrived at the ER.

  
Roger moved to open his door, but the driver stopped him with a firm grip on his shoulder. “Give them a moment, Detective,” he stated with a level look as the back doors were thrown open, spilling the medics and their patient out of the ambulance. “He's in good hands, but it's touch and go right now.”

  
“But,” Roger started, pulling against the hand restraining him, but the driver shook his head.

  
“There's no exit wound,” he revealed. “Worst case scenario is the bullet rebounded off of his ribs or spine and ricocheted around in there. There's nothing you can do for him right now except fill out the info the docs need. Okay?”

  
Roger drew a calming breath in through his nose and nodded. “Yeah. Yeah, okay.” He drew a shaking hand over his sweaty head. “Thanks.”  
The other man nodded with a humorless twist of his mouth and patted Roger's shoulder once before withdrawing. “Hope he makes it.”

  
“Yeah. Yeah,” Roger breathed, taking another deep breath before opening his door and hopping down onto the macadam. He slammed the ambulance door shut as the driver wriggled into the back to close the bus' rear doors from the inside.

  
The ER doors swooshed open automatically for Roger, and he strode towards the admitting desk. A nurse met him halfway there with a clipboard. “Detective Riggs?”

  
“He's my partner,” Roger replied. “What all do you need?”

  
“Fill these out, please. Has any of his information changed since he was here...” she peered at the top page, eyes widening a little. “Two days ago?”

  
Roger smirked mirthlessly. “He's a trouble magnet. No, nothing's changed.” He took the clipboard after she removed the top page.

  
“Then don't worry about these sections,” she replied as she pointed to the relevant places on the forms. “Please look over what we have and make changes if necessary. Is there anyone I can call for you?”

  
“No, thank you,” Roger replied with a sigh. “I've got it. Whole department's on high alert.”

  
“Please let me know if I can help, Detective.” She gently patted his forearm before returning to her station.

  
Roger settled into a waiting room chair and filled out the admittance forms. Before he could return them to the admitting nurse, one of the other nurses arrived at his chair and handed him a steaming paper cup in exchange for the clipboard.

“Real coffee from our break room, Detective,” he offered with a nod.

  
“Wow, thanks,” Roger blinked in surprise.

  
“After this, though, you get decaf,” the nurse replied. “I was on duty when you had your heart attack couple years back.”

  
“Seriously?” Roger's voice squeaked in dismay. “You remember that?”

  
“Doesn't happen often,” the other man briefly grinned. “Cardiac arrest plus surprise-baby birth sticks with you. Anyway, Dr. Magann's on ER rotation this month, so don't let him catch you drinking high test, 'k?”

  
“Shit, yeah,” Roger chuckled. “Thank you, for this.” He raised the cup a little in a toast.

  
The nurse nodded and resumed his duties. Roger's phone buzzed in his pocket, and with a sinking heart he realized he hadn't called Trish yet. Pulling the phone out, he checked the screen. Yep. Trish. Damn, woman was friggin' psychic.

  
He paused with his finger over the green “accept” button. But he shook his head, heaved yet another deep sigh, and swiped the screen.

 

~0-0~

 

Hours passed. Various unis and plainclothes officers stopped in to the ER to check in with Roger, but he had little in the way of progress reports. At one point, so many officers were cluttering the waiting room that the admitting nurse threatened to call all of the department captains. Roger defused the situation by metaphorically throwing Avery under the bus through telling the other officers that his Captain would keep dispatch up to date for them.

  
The more time that passed, the more worn down Roger was with his worrying. This situation was one of those rare exceptions to the saying “no news is good news”. Finally, a doctor pushed wearily through the doors to the waiting room, calling out “For Detective Riggs?”

  
Roger heaved himself out of his chair.

  
The man grimaced an apology, and with an aborted intake of breath, he merely shook his head. “I'm sorry.”

  
He looked like he wanted to be anywhere but there, but had steeled himself for whatever questions or explanations Roger needed. But Roger just felt his stomach fall through to the floor, and practically crumpled into himself as he folded over and collapsed back into his seat. A sob shoved its way up through the overwhelming emotion seizing his lungs; Roger covered his face and just... _shattered_.

 

In the back of the ER, two federal agents cleared the hallway to the staff elevators before a gurney and half a dozen medical staff quickly moved out of one of the operating theaters, followed by two more agents. Everyone but the last two agents fit into the elevator, dropping down to the basement level where the morgue was located. As soon as the elevator doors sealed shut, the remaining agents jogged down the adjoining stairwell to meet the group downstairs.

  
The bed and its occupant were swiftly wheeled into a windowless room where machines were plugged into wall sockets and IV bags resettled beside the bed. The medical staff saw to their patient while several of the federal agents arranged themselves on both sides of the room's only door and a fifth stepped out into the hallway to make a call.

  
“He's stable for the moment,” the man stated quietly. “Docs say he can't be transported for a few hours yet, to make sure he doesn't have any adverse reactions.” He paused for a moment, listening to the other person on the line. “Surgery went well, but the bullet ricocheted and caused quite a mess. He's lucky to be alive. Yeah, we have everything with us. Will call with a sitrep in an hour. Yes, ma'am.” He hung up and nodded to the two stationed on the outside of the door. “No one in or out other than who we've got,” he ordered. “Lethal force authorized.”


	3. Let It Go, Roger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Roger uses his bereavement leave to investigate Riggs' murder. It's not going well.

Much, much later...

It'd been three months since Riggs died, and Roger was finally ready to admit that he might have... _might_... _have_... hit a wall on his investigation.

Investigation. HAH. Even his inner-Trish voice won't call it that. Roger knew that there was nothing for him to do but accept that Riggs was gone, grieve, and move on with his life, but everything was still too raw, too bloody, for him to start letting his partner, his friend, his _brother_ , go. This whole thing with Riggs, his asshole of a father, the Aryan Brotherhood... and Riggs has a little brother?!

Had. _Had_ a little brother. Riggs was dead. But a brother? Who just up and disappeared with Riggs' ugly-ass POS truck into thin air after shooting him? That shouldn't've been possible.

And yet Roger can't find that fugly thing anywhere.

The kids made their way to the front door, calling out their goodbyes as they left for the day, while Trish lightly ran her fingers over Roger's shoulders before kissing the top of his head.

“Please call Brooks today, hon,” she softly ordered. “He's worried about you.”

“Uh-huh,” Roger turned a page in his file on Garrett Riggs and jotted down a note.

“ _Roger_ ,” she gripped his shoulder with more force, digging her perfectly sculpted nails in a little.

“Hm? What?” Roger tore his eyes away from his work and refocused on Trish. “Whazzit?”

“Call. Brooks,” she ordered. “Today.”

“All right,” he nodded, already slipping back to his working headspace.

“Roger Mayfield Murtaugh.” He blinked at her firm tone. Her _don't fuck with me_ lawyer tone.

“I promise, Trish.”

“To what?” she tilted her head, a section of her hair tickling at Roger's collarbone.

“To call Avery,” he replied dutifully.

She smiled sadly. “Hey, I miss him, too,” she murmured, and squeezed Roger's shoulder once more before moving towards the front door by way of Harper's high chair.

“Love you,” he flashed what he hoped was a smile but felt more like a grimace.

“Love you too, honey,” she replied warmly. “Say bye, Daddy,” she told their youngest as she scooped Harper into her arms and resettled her shoulder bag.

“Bah, Dahdah,” Harper chirped, waving a chubby hand and dropping the last of her Cheerios.

“Bye pumpkin,” Roger smiled a little more genuinely. “Daddy loves you.”

His phone vibrated against the counter as the front door clicked shut. Looking at the screen revealed “Speak of the devil,” he muttered, then automatically swiped to deny the call.

Two hours passed, where he ignored two more calls from Avery while relocating to the boat to go over his entire evidence log. Still, nothing jumped out at the grieving, frustrated man except for the goddamn phone interrupting his thoughts.

Speaking of which... “What the fuck, Avery?” Roger snapped, fed up with the constant useless interruptions. He picked up the phone and started pushing down the power button, but jerked his finger away when the caller ID revealed it was Trish.

“Trish? What's up? Everything okay?”

 _“No, Roger,”_ her normally dulcet voice was now heavily tinted with irritation. _“Avery's been trying to get ahold of you ALL DAY. Apparently there's an FBI agent at the station, wanting to talk about Martin and his father.”_

“What? Why?” his eyes widened.

 _“I guess that's up to you to find out, Detective,”_ she replied tartly. _“So maybe you could put on some clean, presentable clothes and haul butt down to the station?”_

“What, now?”

 _“Yes, Roger. NOW.”_ Now her tone had moved way past irritation into righteously pissed.

Only one thing to do, then. “Yes, ma'am.”

 _“Don't make me fetch you,”_ she warned.

“On my way now, honey,” he replied meekly.

 _“I'll let Brooks know,”_ she stated, then without further ado hung up.

Roger heaved himself up from his information nest, careful not to disturb the meticulously laid-out piles, then made his way into the house. After a cursory sniff-check, he changed out of his stained track suit into a clean pair of jeans and a hoody before pulling the Harley out of the garage. After everything that'd happened, he'd found that riding his cycle helped clear his mind and lighten his almost perpetual foul mood like nothing else.

~-o-~

The elevator doors opened on Robbery Homicide's floor, and Roger strode through the squad room to minimal commentary from his fellow officers. He nodded at Bailey before he rapped his knuckles cursorily on Avery's glass office door and walked in.

Inside, Captain Avery was leaning against the front of his desk, while Dr. Cahill and a strange woman were seated in the two chairs. A giant Rottweiler laid attentively at the woman's feet.

“Thank you for gracing us with your presence, Detective,” Avery narrowed his eyes at Roger, his tone clearly conveying his irritation with his former partner's behavior as of late. He waved a hand at the woman with the Rottweiler. “Roger Murtaugh, this is Special Agent Alison Jennings. She's here to close out her file on Detective Riggs and his part in the Aryan Brotherhood of Texas case.”

The FBI agent's mouth crooked at one corner. “Apologies for not getting up, Detective. I was wounded in the line of duty a few months ago... still having a bit of trouble moving around,” she nodded at the dog leaning against her leg.

Roger stepped closer to shake her hand, warily eying the giant dog.

Agent Jennings smiled lopsidedly as she reached out a hand. “Roscoe's my service dog,” she explained. “He's intimidating, but not aggressive.”

Roger studied the woman as they shook hands. Pale skin, slightly rounded face with a squarish chin, hazel-blue eyes, and long wavy brown hair with blonde highlights that spilled out from under a loosely-knit multicolored skull cap. When she spoke, the right side of her face looked strange, as if parts of it were frozen and couldn't move.

“Don't mean to sound rude...” Roger started before taking a breath and holding it for a moment.

Agent Jennings tilted her head a little to the side. “But?” she drew out the word a little with a knowing look.

“Why are you here _now_?” he let out his breath in a gust with the words. “Where were you guys three months ago? Or a year ago? Y'know, when we could've used your help?” He leaned back and crossed his arms.

She opened her mouth to answer at the same time as a godawful noise exploded out from her side. Agent Jennings rolled her eyes and pulled a cell phone from the small backpack purse hanging on the arm of her chair.

“Sorry,” she grimaced as she muted the phone. “My son must've changed the ringtones again.” She looked down at the screen and pursed the left side of her mouth. “And this is him calling. S'cuse me.”

She swiped the screen and tucked the phone into her obviously handicapped right hand, holding the phone for a video call. Roger was just able to catch a glimpse of a couple of heads fighting for space in front of the camera, then the image steadied on a young Latino man, whose hands were gesturing quite emphatically.

“Hey hey hey,” Jennings ordered, her left hand gesturing as well. “Settle down, kiddo. I'm fine.” The teen scowled, his hands moving even more forcefully. “I left you guys a message as soon as we arrived. Guessing you didn't get it?”

She nodded as she received a massive eye roll for answer. “Yeah, so maybe next time you guys are expecting my call, you actually check your phones first before flippin' out, hm?”

He leaned out of the screen and a faint yelp was picked up by the other phone's speaker.

“Enough,” Jennings ordered. “Kwayne, front and center.”

The image jittered for a moment before steadying on an African-American teenager with a frankly impressive afro, if Roger did say so himself.

“Where're grams and papa?”

 _“Getting groceries,”_ came the grumbled response.

“Uh-huh,” Jennings looked deeply unimpressed. “Where's your sisters?”

_“Helping.”_

“And no one's thought to check their phones, or ask their grandparents if I'd contacted them?”

 _“Nico was freaking out,”_ the teen protested.

“Kwayne.”

_“Sorry, Mama.”_

“Look, I'm in the middle of a meeting right now,” Jennings' tone softened. “I'll give y'all a call at nine your time. Help your brother calm down; stop winding him up, y'hear?”

 _“Yes, ma'am. Sorry, Nico.”_  The boy's hands moved with his apology, and the image dipped briefly before the older brother's face came back into focus. His hands moved much slower this time.

“I'm really all right, sweetheart,” Jennings signed along with her words. “Roscoe's been makin' sure I'm takin' it easy.”

 _“Hey, Mama,”_ the younger boy, Kwayne, piped up from offscreen. _“when're you gonna see Uncle Mar...”_

Jennings' eyes narrowed as she interrupted her son. “I'll be meeting up with Uncle Mark once I'm done here and checked into the hotel. Mind your brother.”

The speaker hissed out a gusty sigh only a teenager could make. _“Yes, ma'am.”_

She smiled crookedly at the older boy [ _'There's that weird thing with part of her mouth not moving again,'_ Roger thought], then raised her left hand as if to wave goodbye, but folded over her ring and middle fingers. “Love you, hon. I'll call at nine, all right?”

He nodded, then flashed the same hand sign back before the screen went dark.

Jennings tucked her phone back into her backpack purse with a sigh. “Sorry for that. My oldest is special needs; he and my other kids are a bit worried about me travellin' in my condition,” she tilted her head a little to her right. “I'm only here right now because I'd just gotten clearance from my doctors to travel.”

Maureen Cahill leaned forward in her seat. “You're still recovering from what happened a few months ago?” she asked, looking concerned. “You must've been pretty seriously injured.”

“Hazard of of the job,” Jennings deflected with a self-deprecating quirk of the mouth. “That's why I wasn't here before now, Detective.” She nodded at Roger before looking back at Cahill. “Doctor, I'll need your file on Detective Riggs.” She leaned over the side of her chair to reach a manila folder, pulling out a sealed envelope and handing it to the demuring psychiatrist. “I know: doctor-patient confidentiality. Read this after you get back to your office, please. For your eyes only.”

Cahill looked in bewilderment at the envelope in her hand before asking, “Why exactly is the FBI so interested in Detective Riggs and the Aryan Brotherhood, anyway?”

Jennings sighed, and her dog shifted up to rest his head on her lap. “There isn't much I'm authorized to tell you, other than I'm part of a task force that's been working to break up the various Aryan organizations across the country. Detective Riggs' familial connection to the Texas Brotherhood came up last year, and our investigation into that was folded into the larger operation. I'm afraid the rest is classified.”

“Really? That's _it_?” Roger exclaimed. “What about Garrett Riggs? You guys looking into him? What about-”

“I'm sorry, Detective, but I'm still getting caught up to date myself,” Jennings apologized. “And even if I did know the answers to your questions, I wouldn't be able to divulge that information.” She grimaced with one side of her mouth again. “Captain Avery,” she turned to face Roger's former partner, “I need to head to my next appointment. Will you...?”

Avery nodded. “I'll have copies of our files sent to your field office here in L.A.,” he replied. “You should have it all by the end of day tomorrow, if that's acceptable?”

She smiled. “It is, thank you, sir.” She tapped the dog gently on the top of his head. “Up and at'em, LT,” she quietly ordered, and the dog immediately stood at attention. Jennings grabbed a handhold sticking up from between the dog's shoulders and pulled herself laboriously out of the chair before scooping up her shoulder bag with her left hand.

The FBI agent nodded at Roger and Cahill before refocusing on Avery. “Thank you for your time and assistance, Captain. For what it's worth, I wish we could've done more for your department and Detective Riggs. I hope it helps some to know that my task force won't rest until the Aryan Brotherhood of Texas and all of its allies are completely dismantled.”

Avery straightened and shook Jennings' hand. “It helps. Please don't hesitate to let us know if we can assist you in any way.”

“Thank you.” She and her dog turned as one to face Cahill. “Please call my office as soon as you read that letter, Doctor,” she requested. “I won't be available the rest of today, but will be at my agency's field office after lunch tomorrow.”

“Understood.” Cahill stood and also shook the FBI agent's hand. “I'll contact you tomorrow.”

Roger was standing too far away to easily shake Jennings' hand, and he didn't really feel like it anyway. A part of his mind was chiding him for being so churlish, but something about this whole meeting stank to high heaven. So instead he just nodded at the woman as she carefully made her way out of Avery's office and through the bullpen to the elevators, the giant Rottweiler seemingly propping the woman up on her weak right side.

Roger stared after the woman, absently noting Cahill excusing herself to her office to read whatever Jennings had given her.

“Murtaugh,” Avery tried to gain his attention. “Roger?”

“Hm? What?”

“What's going on with you?”

“Something ain't right about that woman,” Roger mused. “Something stinks about this whole damn thing.”

“Well, whatever's going on, we're out of it.” Avery stated warningly. “Executive Floor very specifically ordered me to cooperate fully with the FBI, and was very clear in saying that our part in this is over. Let's just concentrate on our bailiwick, hm?”

Roger continued to stare out towards the elevators. “Yeah, yeah. Sure,” he replied offhandedly. A thought suddenly popped up. _'Wonder how Molly and Ben are doing?' he wondered. 'Haven't heard from them in a while...'_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm heading to Kentucky this week with my husband for an urban design educational conference, so lucky you gets this chapter a day early. :)  
> Hope you're enjoying the journey so far.   
> \-----}-@


	4. The Funeral

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Flashback to Martin's funeral, then back to Roger's suspicion of Agent Jennings.

A larger than Roger-had-expected crowd gathered at the funeral home. Instead of a casket, there was a longhorn bull head-shaped brass urn with a series of framed photos surrounding it on a table where the casket would normally rest at the back of the room. Roger squeezed Trish's hand before letting go and striding towards Molly in the reception line.

“Hey, Miss Hendricks,” he greeted the younger woman. “Where's your son?”

“Hey, Detective,” Molly greeted him with a watery smile. “He was too upset to come. I left him with a friend.”

“Understandable,” Trish replied with a warm smile from behind Roger. She sidled around him to wrap Molly up in one of her trademark Trish™hugs. “Our kids wanted to come, but they've been hit hard by Martin's loss, too. We didn't want to push anything that'd upset them any further.”

Molly sniffled and returned the hug with interest. “Thank you so much for coming,” her mouth trembled around a weak smile as they disengaged. “I just don't know if I can get through this without backup.”

“Whatever you need.” Trish took firm hold of Molly's hand and squeezed it supportively. “Right Roger?”

He nodded sadly. “Of course. What can we do?”

“Stand with me?” Molly asked, tilting her chin up as her eyes welled with tears.

“Absolutely,” the Murtaughs replied in tandem.

~LW~

 

The entire Robbery Homicide division, as well as least a dozen LAPD unis showed up to pay their respects, as well as a handful of Texan police officers that Riggs had worked closely with in the past. There were also seven Navy SEALs in their dress whites that had either served in Riggs' unit or something, since when Roger asked them how they knew his partner, they responded with curt 'Need To Know's or 'Classified's. By the time the service was about to start, the small room was filled to capacity, with people even lining the back wall.

One of the SEALs came to the podium, identifying himself as a Navy chaplain that had served with Riggs. He kept the service brief, since, as he stated with a wry grin that: “Riggs wasn't much of a church-goin' man, but he understood and appreciated the spiritual aspects of the Faith.”

Another SEAL seated in the second row coughed “Bullshit!” and the room erupted in chuckles. “Yeah, okay, he wasn't much for the spiritual stuff either,” the chaplain's eyes crinkled in brief mirth. “But at least he never told me where to shove it when I offered prayer.”

A few others came up to share equally brief but heartfelt eulogies before the chaplain finished the service. “In a few minutes we'll be heading to the cemetery. I'll say a few words there and then we'll head over to Miss Hendricks' house for a proper Texas Longhorn send-off. Yes, there'll be drinking,” he chuckled as he raised both hands in a 'quiet down' gesture. “But we'll be respectful of Miss Molly and not get too rowdy, y'hear?”

The men in the room nodded, and with his warning well-received, the room began to clear.

“Hey Molly,” Roger leaned in and quietly asked. “You were able to get all this organized pretty quickly. I hope you had help?”

She blew her nose before answering. “It was already figured out except for specific locations. Martin's wife had insisted he have funeral plans after they'd gotten engaged. His military friends took care of what needed done so I could concentrate on Ben.”

“That was nice of them,” Trish rubbed Molly's shoulder. “We would've been happy to host the wake at our house though, Molly.”

“Apparently it's a thing with the military,” Molly replied with a shrug. “And no, the SEALs promised to take care of everything there too. Ben and I are leaving for Texas tomorrow, and Martin's unit friends are finishing cleaning out the house.”

A couple of the men in uniform came over at that moment and reminded them that the motorcade was waiting, so Molly and the Murtaughs left the funeral home and piled into the small limo at the head of the procession.

Two LAPD cruisers, with their lights flashing, escorted the group to the cemetery where Miranda and her father were already interred. As the graveside service began, Trish rested a warm hand on Roger's knee and squeezed as he felt the stress of loss weigh him down further.

Two of the SEALs carried Riggs' urn to the site. Roger had to stifle a completely inappropriate giggle at the thought that the SEALs were literally holding the bull by its horns. An honor guard behind the group fired their shots, the cremains were lowered into the vault next to Miranda's grave, and Molly clutched the meticulously folded American flag to her chest as she openly sobbed. Roger folded her into his arms as he allowed the tears to roll down his cheeks, too.

Time kind of passed in a blur after that, until the cemetery was empty but for him, Trish and Molly. Three of the SEALs were waiting down by the cars to drive Molly back to her house.

Molly stared woodenly at Miranda's gravestone as Roger strode to her side. She was muttering something in a tone that he could only categorize as venomous. “...well, got him all to yourself now. Hope you're happy. Selfish _bitch_.”

Roger touched her shoulder, and with a choked-off sob, she gathered herself and turned away from the graves.

Trish came around to the younger woman's other side, wrapping an arm around her narrow shoulders. The three walked quietly to the cars, until Trish gently pulled her to a stop a few yards away.

“I need to get back to the kids. Are you sure you should be leaving tomorrow?” she asked quietly. “I'd feel much better if you didn't go until you had a good night's sleep first. You and Ben are more than welcome in our home.”

Molly smiled sadly. “Not gonna be sleeping well for a long time,” she replied with a shrug. “And no offense, but I just wanna go home. Can't stand bein' here anymore.”

“None taken.” Trish wrapped her up in another one of her special hugs. “If you or Ben need anything, anything, you call us. Okay?”

“Thank you, Trish.” Molly sniffled before kissing the other woman's cheek. “For everything. How're you gonna get home?”

Trish held up her cell phone. "Requested a Lyft at the end of the service. Our ride'll be here any moment now."

Roger opened his arms for his own hug. “Sorry, but don't think I'm up for an Irish wake right now,” he apologized.

“Understood. Thank you, Roger, for taking such good care of Martin.”

With a final squeeze and a firm nod at the Navy men at the car, he let her go. Trish took his hand as they watched the car drive away from the cemetery.

> [](//imgur.com/bQCw266)

 

Back at Robbery/Homicide:

Roger watched the handicapped FBI agent make her slow way to the elevator banks. Avery's voice warning him away from his continuing investigation into Riggs' murder sounded just like the teacher's voice in the Peanuts animated specials. “ _WAH_ -WAH WAH _WAH-WAH_ WAH.”

Roger must've given an acceptable response, as Avery excused him and briefly grasped his shoulder before he left the office.

Roger stepped up to Sonja Bailey's desk as the elevator doors closed on Jennings and her dog. “Hey, Bailey.”

She tilted her head back to see him better at her seated angle. “Hey Murtaugh. Please don't ask me to do anything illegal.”

He paused. “What?”

She leveled her _You're not fooling me_  look at him.

Roger blew out a breath as he rubbed a palm over his pate. “Look, Bailey, that lady just came to personally request all of our info on Riggs and the Aryan Brotherhood. Something stinks about all this.”

Bailey's eyebrows scrunched together. “Why now?”

“Exactly,” he nodded. “I want you to do a dive on her,” he ordered. “A deep dive, okay? Special Agent Alison Jennings, FBI.”

Bailey heaved a deep sigh. “I better not get in trouble for this,” she muttered. “You're not even back from leave yet.”

Roger patted her on the shoulder. “Got your back, Bailey,” he replied with confidence he wasn't quite feeling. “I'll check in later, okay?”

With that, he nodded and quickly made his way to underground parking. Hopefully Agent Jennings was moving slowly enough that he could tail her to her next destination.


	5. Wake Up, Riggs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Looks like this cowboy has some kick in him after all...

An indeterminate time after Riggs' shooting:

Riggs woke up incrementally.

It took him a long time to realize that the gentle pressure on his right arm was from another person lying in the bed with their head lightly resting on his shoulder.

Breathing in through his nose, he got nothing except for humidified air that tasted like plastic. Oxygen through a nasal cannula, check.

He let his mouth fall open and breathed through that for a few moments, realizing that he was also hearing someone murmuring softly.

Long moments later it finally clicked that it was Ben cuddled against Martin's least injured side, a fluffy pillow between their bodies so there wasn't any pressure on him, quietly reading a comic book aloud complete with sound effects.

 _Quietly._ Martin'd find it hysterical if he weren't so fucking tired and confused. Wasn't he dead?

A chair creaked to the left of the bed, and Martin barely managed to crack open one eye. At first his vision was all blurry in the too-bright light, but then it cleared quickly enough for him to make out a female figure in the chair, apparently looking at a tablet screen.

“Molls?” he croaked, and the figure startled, dropping the tablet with a clatter to the floor.

“Riggs?” her strained voice was soothing to his ears. “You _SONOFABITCH_.”

Okay, maybe not so soothing.

Molly leaned closer to Riggs' head, reaching over his torso and resting a hand on Ben's arm to keep him in place. “Be _real_ glad Ben's here to keep my language civil,” she bit out in a sharp tone.

“Wasn't so 'civil' last week,” the boy piped up at the same time as Riggs replied “Thank you, Ben,” with a weak grin.

“Brat,” Molly smiled wetly at her son. “Hey, go get Martin a glass of water, 'kay? And grab the doc while you're at it.”

“'K.” He gently untangled his legs from the blanket covering Riggs and scrambled off the bed. “I'm glad you're awake, Martin.” He smiled before darting out of the room.

“Whazzup?” Riggs' jaw cracked with a huge yawn. “How come 'm not dead?”

“Because you, sir, are the luckiest asshole on the _planet_ ,” Molly replied. “The FBI had people watching you, did you know that?” She crossed her arms and leaned back in the chair.

He blinked. Oh. Right. “The two people at the flower stand,” he thought out loud. “Said something like that. I think.” He weakly scratched at his nose. “Kinda fuzzy.”

“Not surprised,” replied a man in a doctor's coat at the door. He nodded at Molly before striding over to Riggs' right side. “You've been unconscious for four weeks, Detective. That bullet caused quite a bit of damage. If we hadn't been watching you so closely, I doubt you'd have survived,” he gravely informed Riggs. “You're still not out of the woods yet, but I'm thrilled that you've woken up so quickly.”

“Quickly?” Riggs puzzled. “...was out four weeks?”

“They had you in a medically-induced _coma_ ,” Molly supplied. “Couldn't have you moving. At _all_.”

Riggs shot a confused look at her, but the doctor picked up the explanation. “You're still very weak and need your rest, Detective,” he started.

“Call me Riggs.”

“Or _jackass_. That works, too,” Molly snapped with a sniff.

The doctor chuckled as Ben came skidding into the doorway with a glass of water clutched in both hands.

“Water!” he chirped, and scootched around the doctor to hand Riggs the glass. The detective's hand trembled when he tried to raise it again, so the boy steadied the glass as the doctor pulled out a straw from his smock pocket and plunked it in. Riggs realized that he was pretty thirsty, and gratefully swallowed a few mouthfuls before letting go of the straw and relaxing back into the bed with heavy eyelids.

“Next time you wake up, we'll see how much of a debrief you can handle,” the doctor continued. “But for now, just know you're in an FBI safe house under round-the-clock medical care. We've got your six, Riggs. All you need to worry about right now is getting better.”

Riggs shot an assessing look at the doctor, but after a moment nodded. “Thanks doc.”

The man nodded acknowledgement, and with a pat to Ben's shoulder, left the room.

Riggs rolled his head towards Molly with another jaw-cracking yawn.

“Sleep, Riggs,” she softly cupped his cheek in her hand. “I've got plenty of time now to give you what-for.”

“Yes, ma'am,” he smiled gently, “Lookin' forward to it.” He closed his eyes.

 

Roger, present day:

Roger was able to follow the FBI agent's car after catching up to it two blocks away from the precinct. They merged onto the Santa Monica freeway before heading north on the 405. Traffic was flowing fairly well that day, so it only took thirty-five minutes to reach the exit to the FBI's L.A. Office on Wilshire Boulevard. But Agent Jennings' car drove past the building and turned left a couple of streets over, then right to pull up to what looked like a higher-end hotel.

“Ooo, Plaza La Reina?” Roger murmured. “My tax dollars better not be paying for this shit.” The Plaza was a four-star hotel made to resemble the old-world Spanish Mediterranean style. Seriously, there was no way Jennings could afford to stay there on her salary. What the hell was going on here?

Jennings' car parked in front of the hotel's main office, flipped on the four-ways just before a man climbed out of the driver's side and walked inside. Roger drove past and caught a glimpse of Agent Jennings calmly sitting in the backseat, her dog leaning out of the opposite window with the slobberiest doggy smile he'd ever seen. Ew.

Roger circled around and parked inside the public garage half a block away from the hotel. He quickly made his way to the front of the garage, peeked around the corner of the entrance and saw Jennings' driver climbing back into the car and turning it right down a cobbled alley. Roger pulled up his phone’s map application to find that the alley led to handicapped parking for the hotel, which made sense considering the agent's purported mobility issues.

Roger quickly crossed the street and blended into the lunch crowd. He waited a few minutes until he spotted Jennings, her dog and driver, the man carrying a few cases of luggage, slowly moving down the block to a section of rooms. They turned into a garden entrance, and satisfied that they were checking the agent into her room, Roger strode in the opposite direction to an independent coffee roasthouse to pick up an espresso and sandwich. He lucked out that the line wasn't very long, as well as there weren't any picky customers with highly specific and detailed directions for their frou-frou drinks and snacks.

Fortified with food and caffeine, Roger made it back to his original vantage spot across the street from the hotel within fifteen minutes. He leaned against the building and waited for Jennings or her driver to show.

It only took another twenty minutes for them to come back to the sidewalk: Jennings and her dog coming to a stop at the curb while the driver walked to the car, presumably to bring it around.

Roger’s phone pinged as he repositioned himself in the shadow of a store’s awning out of easy sight. He pulled it out to find that Bailey had sent him the results of her initial foray into Agent Jennings’ background. He opened the link and scanned over the information. Married to a retired Army Special Forces officer… works in the Behavioral Analysis Unit of the FBI… assigned to Counterterrorism/Threat Assessment task force blah blah blah, already heard it… has four kids, damn…

“Interesting reading, Detective?” a woman’s husky alto interrupted his perusal.

Roger looked up with a sinking feeling. _‘Aw, crap…’_

Agent Jennings and her dog stood only a few feet away, the expression on the woman’s face showing her amusement at catching him off guard.

“Oh, hello, Agent,” Roger hemmed. “Fancy running into you here.”

“Uh-huh.” She smiled. Oh boy, he knew that smile. Trish looked like that whenever she caught one of the kids trying to lie badly. Or Roger.

Must be a Mom-thing.

“Something I can help you with, Detective Murtaugh?”

He sucked in air and blew out a noisy breath as he tucked the phone back into his pocket. “Yeah. What are you _really_ here for?”

The left corner of her mouth quirked up in a lop-sided grin. “Straight to the point: I ‘ppreciate that,” she replied. “I really am here to close out our file on this part of our investigation.”

Roger pursed his lips thoughtfully, then shook his head. “Hm, no. That’s not the only reason you’re here.”

Her eyes narrowed a little, while the crooked smile froze in place. “Your partner’s, you and your department’s tussle with the Aryan Brotherhood of Texas’ members out here is just a very small part of our investigation, Detective.”

“Why hasn’t anyone else from your team contacted us before now?”

She paused for a moment, looking rueful. “Classified.”

“Really?” Roger tilted his head to the side, briefly pondering whether to call her on the obvious obfuscation. “Bullshit.”

Jennings echoed his head-tilt. “I have a degree in it,” she returned wryly. “But no: I’m not bullshitting you. There’s a lot been going on that you’re not cleared to know about, and following me when I know you aren’t authorized, not to mention when you’re not even back from bereavement leave…” She raised an eyebrow meaningfully. Behind her, the driver pulled the car up to the curb.

Roger deflated slightly. Shit.

Jennings took a step closer. “Look, I know what it’s like to lose a partner… a friend…” she started.

“Don’t,” he warned with a shake of his head.

She heaved a gusty sigh. “I can’t read you in to this, Murtaugh,” she continued. “Much as I want to help answer your questions, help you move on, I just _can’t_. I don’t have the authority to order you to back off, either. I do, however, have to tell my senior agent that you’re investigating me off the clock, which is gonna get back to your Captain and his superiors. Please, this is so much bigger than you know. If there’s any information that I can share, I will. I know my word is worthless to you.” The look of sympathy that washed over her face was almost more than Roger could stand. “I’m heading over to my brother’s right now, but tomorrow I’ll be checking in with our L.A. team. I’ll ask if there’s any information about Detective Riggs’ death that you don’t have. If so, I’ll make sure you get it.”

Roger narrowed his eyes in suspicion. “Won’t that cause problems?” He shot a meaningful look at Jennings’ driver.

“Told you I know what it’s like to lose a partner,” she replied softly. “If there’s something we know and you don’t, and it doesn’t cause any conflict of interest in our investigation, then there’s no reason to keep it from you.”

 _‘Seems too easy,’_ Roger thought. “No fed’s ever willingly shared info with us lowly cops before,” he retorted.

“I don’t do power trips, Detective,” she shot back with a wry grin. “And inter-agency cooperation ain’t a four-letter word. I _hate_ , and suck at, politics.”

Jennings’ driver cleared his throat loudly as he exited the car. She shot the man a _look_ before turning back to Roger. “I can give you a call tomorrow afternoon, Detective. If you’ll be at work?”

He shook his head. “How about I visit you instead?” he asked. “Around three?”

She rolled her eyes up, obviously checking a mental calendar. “Should be fine. I’ll make sure to put your name on the approved visitor’s list.” She nodded at Roger and turned towards the car.

The driver opened the rear door for her. Once Jennings and her dog were settled, she rolled the window down while the man got back in the driver’s seat.

“Have a good evening, Detective.”

Roger nodded, and the car smoothly pulled back onto the street. He’d wait until tomorrow. But if he didn’t get any answers, all bets were off.

 

The driver glanced in the rear-view mirror at Murtaugh’s rapidly receding figure. “He’s gonna be an issue.”

Jennings sighed. “Wouldn’t you be, in his shoes?” she replied.

“We should switch cars,” he commented. “I need to go off-shift, anyway.”

“Yeah, go ahead. Thank you for working longer today.” She scratched behind her dog’s ear. “Ask if Egan’s available, please.”

He nodded. “I’ll have him meet us in the alley out back of the Oakland safe house.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's update 8/7/2019  
> I have the rest of the story all plotted out, but am having some health issues I need to address before I can finish this fic.  
> Please bear with me, as I will finish the story once my docs & I have a better handle on my stupid health shit.  
> Thank you. <3

**Author's Note:**

> Season Two's ending was just ridiculous, and I felt that Riggs could've exited stage right in a much more realistic manner. Because really, don't you think that people other than the Robbery/Homicide Dept. of the LAPD would've been involved in dealing with the Aryan Brotherhood of Texas? That thought set me off on this particular tangent, which makes for a much more realistic ending of Riggs' involvement in the show.
> 
> I'll be adding one chapter every week. I've even set an alarm on my phone to remind me to post the next chapter on Monday nights. Hope you enjoy.
> 
> All the thanks goes to my dear AXZanier for helping me to beat this fic into an aspect of submission after too many years of not writing. Thank you, love. <3


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